The Substitute
by hestia-jones85
Summary: It was the last time for them, though he was yet to know. A one-shot featuring Ron/Mary Cattermole, inspired by the kiss they shared in the movie.


"Please get him back by six."

"Sure, Mary."

There was a sullen look on his face as Freddie took his aunt's hand and walked out the door. Heaving a small sigh, she followed them out, watched her sister start the car, and remained standing at the gate till they had driven out of sight. Then, she cast the protective spells around her house, an unnecessary measure but one she took all the same. There were certain residues the war had left in her consciousness; she didn't know if she'd ever be fully rid of them.

She was well aware that her son didn't want to go to Helen's and spend the afternoon with his aunt instead of his mother. It stung her to do this, and the only thing that gave her enough strength to shove that feeling of guilt into some corner of her mind was that Freddie wouldn't have to go through this anymore after that day.

She shut the door tightly and leaned against it, her forehead resting on the cold, varnished wood. Then, with a slight shake of her head, she climbed the stairs. Her steps felt beleaguered, becoming heavier as she approached her bedroom. A faint, flowery scent surprised her when she entered the small room. Then, she spotted the bunch of yellow roses she had put on the bedside table earlier.

Her stomach gave a slight squirm, something that often happened on days like that day – a sign of anticipation. She turned back and went to the larger bedroom, the one which she had previously shared with Reg but now belonged to her two daughters. Slowly, she unclasped the buttons on her dress and let it fall before stepping into the bathroom.

The bath was ready. She placed her wand on the floor, pulled up her hair in a tight bun and got into the tub; the onslaught of the hot water on her body as she sank into it was an incredible sensation. Although she had showered already in the morning, this made her feel cleaner, fresher, more youthful.

As she scrubbed herself with the loofah, her mind replayed flashes of scenes from the recent weeks, all of them involving a very young red-headed man who often came to visit her when she was alone, staying only for an hour or so. His wonderstruck face swam before her eyes, and he seemed to whisper that he was not Reg. That knowledge should have moored her to reality and forced her to recognise the futility of their situation, but it hadn't.

It started but with a chance meeting at Diagon Alley in front of the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, which led to his helping her shop for toys, and then a follow-up tea at her house.

_"I've never been able to forget that kiss," she murmured._

_"Well…you thought it was your husband," he replied nervously._

_"I wish it was him."_

_"I'm sorry about this but – "_

_Her lips were on his again._

He'd kissed her back, and she was still unsure if he'd done it out of charity, or because he'd wanted to. She'd never asked him; she certainly didn't when he'd turned up unexpectedly a few months later. To her own bewilderment, the gesture had pleased her.

Later, he had confessed why he had returned.

_"Hermione…you know, my girlfriend…"_

_"Oh yes, Miss Granger."_

_"Yeah…uhm. She's…well, things have been rough on us."_

_"Ah."_

_"We aren't seeing each other any longer."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_He stared at her, his blue eyes uncertain, confused. "I dunno why I'm here, Mrs Cattermole."_

_"It's all right, Ron."_

_The tension which had been building up between them caused her to move closer towards him. There was a kiss at first, so slow and warm it made her cold body ache. By the time it had ended, both of them were trembling._

_Neither of them said anything before their lips connected again, or after; they must have been there, though, those millions of questions, but they seemed so trivial as his arms enclosed round her waist. They were questions that judged the way his hands trailed across her back before making their way towards her neck; they were questions that frowned upon his fingers roaming through her hair, making her numb and aroused; they were questions that cried foul when she was pushed up on the table, her legs spreading; they were questions of common sense, of morals and ethics, and they were meager wisps of thoughts that dissipated as she guided him into her, as he groaned against her left ear, and as their bodies heaved urgently until they were both thrown into a shattering climax._

_And, because such questions are always persistent, they would surely have risen again, but before they could take form, the doorbell rang, announcing the return of her children from their friend's house._

The doorbell rang sharply three times. She picked up her wand and lifted the protective enchantments that had been placed earlier. The sound of the door opening and then closing shut could be heard. Her heartbeat increased as she listened to him coming up the stairs; she was not ready yet.

"Mary?"

"I'm in the bath," she said loudly. "Could you wait in the bedroom for some time?"

"Okay."

There was no hurry in her as she stepped out of the tub and used a towel to rub herself dry. Then, she scooped up the discarded dress, put it on, and sat down in front of the vanity table. While rummaging the drawer for face powder, her fingers chanced upon something familiar – a red lipstick she often used to wear for Reg. Goosebumps arose on her skin as she painted her lips with it, but the sense of finality the action beckoned was very much welcome.

She toyed with the powder-puff for a moment before deciding against it; any other adornment was going to trivialise the occasion. Besides, she had good skin and didn't look bad with just the red lips. She was still attractive, and that was important as it helped sustain the equillibrium in her relationship with the young man.

With one last look at the mirror, she stood up and left for her bedroom. He was standing, his back towards her, staring out the window at she didn't know what. She silently put up all the protective enchantments again and trod in without a word after closing the door behind her.

"You look…wow," was the first thing he said when he whipped around and caught sight of her.

She smiled and searched for a reply.

"You've never…uh," he said, and his ears were turning red as he went on speaking, "put on stuff before."

"Today is different," she pointed out, more to herself.

"Why?"

"Not now," she murmured. She had reached him. He was much taller as she was barefooted; she had to stand on her toes in order to reach his lips. His arms held her up, making it easier, and he responded to her kiss tenderly.

Perhaps, for him, this kiss was the beginning to something that had by now become a frequent ritual. For her, it meant more; there was a hunger in her that gradually made it more vigorous, a hunger that needed to be satisfied once and for all. The violence which she put into it must have caught him by surprise, for he broke off and looked at her, the expression on his face quizzical. But before he could comment, she tore off her dress, the only piece of clothing which covered her body; then she untied the bun on her head, letting her black hair cascade down her bare back.

"You're really beautiful," he said. It came out more as a croak, and he flushed with embarrassment.

She ignored it and taking his hand, led him to the bed. "Come to me," she said, not really knowing who she was calling. She climbed on to the bed, faced him on her knees and undressed him. First, the shirt went, and the hard, sturdy chest which appeared was beautiful, and so different from what she actually longed for. It was followed by the trousers, and he was revealed to be wearing bright orange boxers which had two black C's and cannonballs all over them.

_Chudley Cannons._

Her heart agonized over how young he truly was; she had never quite considered how much the ending of their affair would affect him. She was aware that this was his way of coping with the loss of his girlfriend; she was also aware that _that_ was just one of a throng of reasons why he was there. He was a young man, and like all young men, had a healthy sexual appetite. Above all, there was a sense of duty in him which dragged him to her as though he was responsible for her.

He was young, in love with somebody else, and he shouldn't have been there. She didn't know how deep he had fallen into this; she didn't know how to tell him he needed to rise beyond it soon.

However, he didn't give her enough time to think of a way. He was now naked, having taken off his boxers himself. Staring into her eyes, he joined her in the bed, kneeling as she did. His thumbs touched the tip of her chin, and from there, the rest of his fingers ran gently across either side of her jaw, went down the neck, then shoulders, then arms, and up the arms again. He paused – only for a second – before cupping her breasts in his hands and kissing her again.

As his tongue found its way into her mouth, a sudden surge of passion seized them both and the kiss took on the ruthlessness of the preceding one. His hand – she no longer knew which – supported her back so that she wasn't knocked off balance, while the other one traversed down her stomach, parted her legs, moved up and down her hips for a while before finally coming to rest on what lay between them.

A collective moan issued from them, and they broke off instantly. She laid back, her head coming to rest on the pillows with a soft "flump", and then she watched him as he held up her left leg and pressed his lips against it. He went lower and lower, his eyes never breaking contact. She could tell that he was still discovering the thrill of getting _this_ intimate with somebody, still reveling in the fact that an intimacy such as this could bring him so much pleasure, for his eyes were sparkling with life, with gratitude, and with lust.

And then, when his tongue had reached the end of her inner thigh, she closed her eyes and recognised his passion no more; she was too lost in her own. Her mind was but a blank space and into it rained images, memories, and emotions so that it was no longer colourless but a palette of all imaginable hues. Before long, those colours popped and built into a tidal wave which washed over her entire being over and over again, while her throat burned because this deluge was going to come to an end.

But not yet, as she knew; the next moment, he was on top of her and inside her. She raised herself so that she could embrace him, and he received her with eagerness. His hair felt warm as her fingers dug into it. She breathed the familiar scent of menthol in, let it fill her so that she would never have to miss it. She wept without a sound when he threw her down, and then when she had that deluge sweeping upon her one last time as he gasped and shuddered in her arms.

"What's wrong?" he asked when he saw the tears which had run down her cheeks.

She shook her head.

"Was it…bad?" he asked again, a little worried this time.

"It was brilliant," she said. "I will never forget it."

He grinned and collapsed on the bed next to her. "Me neither," he said.

"Which is why," she began, "this must be the last time we see each other."

"What?" he yelped.

"This is going to stop today, Ron," she said, trying her level best not to let her voice crack, "you have a life to get back to. A girlfriend."

"But," he protested, not understanding, "what do you mean? Why right now?"

She cradled his face in her hands. "Don't you see?" she pleaded. "This is not real. This is not meant to last. And I have to let go, Ron. I have to let this go and be stronger for my children. I cannot…" She paused because what she was going to say next would probably be the worst thing she could say to him. "I cannot keep on reliving the past through you."

As she had expected, his expression changed from confusion to horror. "You've still…" he said, and his voice shook as he took her hands off his face, "I said I was not him."

"You are right," she said softly. "You are not him. You cannot be. You will never be. He's gone, and I need to accept it and move on."

The disappointment on his face crushed her, but she willed herself to sit up and wrap the white sheet around her body. She turned her face away from him, determined to let him realise it was over, and it was the longest three minutes of her life when he didn't move, waiting for her to look at him again. Her courage didn't fail her, but when he sighed deeply before getting up to dress, it faltered and she nearly called out his name.

But what would she say? There was _nothing_ to say, not even goodbye even if he'd never return. And so, she sat still, staring resolutely at the door and counting the seconds till she saw him walking out of it without a backward glance.

At long last, her front door slammed shut. The tears didn't come. She wasn't sure if he'd ever forgive her, but as she wiped the red remains from her lips, she knew that there would be no absolution for the woman that had just died.

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Thank you for reading! This was inspired by a challenge set by an LJ friend who wanted to read pairings inspired by the movie. :D I don't ship Ron/Mary, but it was interesting to write it nonetheless. Both characters and their world belong to JK Rowling. The kiss happens in the movie, not the books.


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